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I wasa mass of trembling bones when the helicopter touched down. We landed in the centre of a tarmac circle surrounded by manicured nature and not much else. There were no buildings for as far as the eye could see, only a long, black Mercedes with opaque windows and tyres that looked like they’d been polished with a cashmere brush.
An older man dressed in a slick tailored suit held out a hand and didn’t flinch when mine shook uncontrollably in his grip. He didn’t even bat an eyelid. He didn’t say a word either as we drove across the island to the place where I was to lose my virginity to a total stranger.
The landscape passed in a blur. The only images I saw were those in my head: potential scenarios, feelings, nerves, questions. So many questions.What does he look like? How old is he? Is he one of the infamous Isle of Crow billionaires? Does he live in a mansion? Is he single? God, I hope he’s single.Itoccurred to me I might be about to sleep with a serial virginity-taker. Perhaps this was his hobby. Some men like gambling or golf, maybe breaking in a virgin was that lesser-known of billionaire pastimes.
More questions flooded my head:Where will we do it? When will we do it? Will it happen quickly or will he want to get to know me? Will I like it? Will it hurt?
I pressed my fingertips to my temples and squeezed my eyes closed. I needed to clear my head before I met with the man who was going to make me a woman. When I reluctantly opened them again, the car was sweeping through an enormous, foreboding set of iron gates and up a tree-lined drive that looked long enough to reach mainland Europe. My lungs filled with awe and my skin prickled. A tightening in my stomach told me if I didn’t get to a loo in the next twenty minutes, I may well have had an accident on my hands.
As the trees parted, a slate grey building came into view, stretching from the ground up into the clouds. Air vacated my chest through parted lips.
“It’s enormous,” I whispered.
I darted my gaze to the driver whose expression didn’t budge even a millimetre.
I tried again. “Is this Blackcap Hall?”
He glided the car alongside the wide stone steps leading to the main entrance. “Yes, ma’am.”
I reached for the door handle but the driver’s curt warning halted me. “Someone is coming for you.”
I sat back slowly and waited. Sure enough, a short, quick, highly efficient-looking man strode through the doors and down the steps. I thanked the driver and stepped out of the car.
“This way please, Miss Hemingway.”
“My things—” I glided an arm towards the boot of the car where my suitcase still sat.
“They will be taken straight to your rooms,” the man said without looking around.
Rooms?He saidrooms?As in,plural?
I hurried after him into the darkness of the hall. Instantly, the sound of my footsteps rang around the walls as my heels echoed on the polished floor. In the dim light of the chandeliers, dust floated around us, and I fell in love.
Buildings were my passion. Architects and designers, my heroes. It only took me a second after reading the contract to start researching Blackcap Hall, but astonishingly, I found nothing. I would have devoured any information I could get my hands on.
“Before we go any further,” the man said, “I need to take a few personal items from you.”
I frowned. “Personal items?”
“Yes. I need all digital devices, recording devices and your passport.”
“My passport?”
His response was to hold his face straight and his flattened palm out.
I bent down and searched through my handbag for my British passport and iPad and handed them over.
He was deadpan. “Phone.”
“What if I need to call home?”
“We’ll arrange for you to use one of ours.”
I stared at him in disbelief. He couldn’t seriously want to take my phone from me? That was my lifeline. My connection to Remi, to the university, to my mum. It held all my photos, lists and eBooks.
“I have everything on my phone,” I said, my voice pleading.
“Master’s orders.” His reply was followed by a slow blink.
